This time of year.

I found a book today. It belonged to my dad. I was compelled to trace my fingers down the edge of one page, knowing at one time his hands touched the same one. I wondered, did I cross his mind while he read this? At one point did he ever look up from these pages and wonder where we were? What we were doing? I don't know, maybe it's silly but I always try to not think of him this time of year. But I always do. I've never even seen his grave. I went to the funeral, but not to the plot. I don't know why. I don't know why I've never been back to see it since. Sometimes it's really hard being human.